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For a man who’d made a career out of crushing enemy troops beneath the heel of a one-hundred-ton assault mech, General Veers was a surprisingly understated individual. No fuss, no fanfare. When he wasn’t working—which wasn’t often—he preferred simple pleasures: a game of repulsor darts in the officers’ lounge; a stiff drink and a lazy evening watching holofilms in his cabin; or something stiffer and much less lazy in that same cabin, usually begun towards the halfway point of said holofilm, and necessitating a lot of rewinding to pick up where the holo had left off.
This suited Captain Piett just fine, for he was much inclined towards the same. Very inclined, in fact; he’d been pining over Veers for what seemed like a lifetime, resigned to take his furtive longings to the grave. But a drunken confession mumbled into the collar of Veers’s tunic had proved his undoing.
It had been post-mission. They’d lost the signal to Veers’s Walker early on, and Piett had lost his cool when the reported casualties started piling up. But the General had survived unscathed, greeting Piett in the hangar with a sheepish grin and an, “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Piett had hauled him off for a celebratory drink, which turned into a deluge, and on the river of his inebriation his confession had poured out. Veers had been surprised, for a moment. But then he’d colored, and admitted to some pretty fruity feelings of his own.
Naval feelings, really. A bit too purple for such a dyed-in-the-wool Army boy. They had retired to Veers’s room quickly after that, and with some minor cajoling and the aid of two bacta-gel packs, they’d consummated their alliance in a kaleidoscopic burst, with all the colors of the rainbow.
Sobered up the next morning, Piett’s fears he’d be kicked out of bed had proved entirely unfounded. Veers had curled around him like a Denonian tree-slawth, refusing to let him go until Piett promised ten times over that this was what Veers wanted it to be, and which Piett had not dared to hope: the start of a permanent, exclusive, lifelong relationship.
“In other words,” Piett had said, struggling to be heard with his mouth muffled against Veers’s chest, “you’d like us to date.”
Veers had squeezed him closer, and replied, “Really, Fir, you know I’m too old to date.”
Hard to believe it was a year ago now. In celebration of their anniversary, they were spending the day in Veers’s cabin—much more spacious than Piett’s quarters as a captain—the both of them having made rare use of their allotted sick leave to skive off their duties and indulge in each other.
Piett was curled quite comfortably under Veers’s arm and snuggled close on the bunk when the MSE-6 droid appeared. It zipped through the access port in-built to the cabin doors, skidding violently around their boots and coming to a stop next to the side of the bed.
He looked at Veers. “Were you expecting something?”
“Not a thing,” Veers replied. Leaning down, but mindful not to jostle Piett, he pressed the button to release the storage hatch on the droid’s back. It opened, revealing a square parcel wrapped in holographic plastipaper. The design was patterned with about ten thousand flowers, if Piett was estimating correctly, and so bright it was blinding.
“Three guesses who it’s from,” Veers grinned.
He snatched it quickly, the mouse droid whizzing away with a jaunty beep. “Don’t tease Tiaan. He means well, you know—and he takes anniversaries very seriously.”
Too seriously, perhaps. Jerjerrod could drop more credits in a single afternoon than Piett made in a year; with an unlimited bankroll at his disposal and an engineer’s obsession with detail, Jerjerrod’s “anniversary celebrations” were effusive affairs. Large in scope, staggering in cost, and intensely Tiaan.
How Jerjerrod had learned the exact date of their anniversary, Piett had no idea. He’d very deliberately refrained from providing the specific date, aware of the importance Jerjerrod placed on calendars and vaguely concerned that on his anniversary he’d roll over to find his friend bursting out of his closet on a wave of cut flowers and confetti.
But the parcel seemed harmless enough. He sat cross-legged on the bed, peering down at it.
Veers sat up as well, their bare knees bumping as he rearranged his much longer limbs to accommodate for Piett’s space. Stripped to their undershirts and briefs, there was a conspiratorial feel to the proceeding, as though they were ensigns swapping contraband in the dark. “Shall we open it together, then?”
Piett placed the package on his lap, and fixed Veers with a very serious look. “I just want to be sure you’re prepared for whatever this may be.”
Raising an eyebrow, Veers sat up straighter, intrigued. “What exactly are you expecting?”
“I’ve no idea,” he replied. “But I do know what sort of gifts Tiaan buys for his own anniversary, and I don’t want to shock you.”
“Well now I have to see it.” He reached down, but Piett snatched the package back before he could pilfer it away. “Firmus!”
“I’m going to open it first,” he declared. “Once I confirm it’s safe for your eyes—”
“Fir, really, I’m a decade your senior—”
“—I’ll let you see. But I need to be sure it’s, ah. Not indecent.”
“It’s from Tiaan,” Veers sighed, but he flopped back against the pillow obediently. “How scandalous could it be?”
Veers operated under the mistaken belief that Moff Jerjerrod was as harmless as he appeared. Tall and awkward, Jerjerrod’s fey good looks and flushing shyness obfuscated what Piett knew lurked underneath: the beating heart of a born and bred pervert. He was a wonderful friend, and Piett loved him a great deal, but Jerjerrod was not half as naive as he pretended to be. He held an encyclopedic knowledge of debauchery, gleaned from erotic art galleries and banned historical texts and dirty books he shoved under his mattress, pulling them out in the dead of night in their shared Corellia Naval Academy dorm and reading by the light of a handheld glowbulb.
Piett could remember it quite clearly. Wide-eyed, his thighs clenched together and his lower lip gnawed to a pulp, Jerjerrod would read, and absorb, and retain that knowledge, dropping out tidbits in an alarmingly casual fashion and cementing totally in Piett’s head the knowledge that, between Motti and Jerjerrod, it was sweet, soft-spoken Tiaan who was the real degenerate.
At least Cadet Tiaan had been too shy to act on any of his more esoteric interests. But no more. Moff Jerjerrod had the benefit of well over a decade of constant indulgence from Admiral Motti; at this point, there was nothing they hadn’t done, and, more exhaustingly, nothing Jerjerrod had not immediately commed Piett to inform him about.
Which was all well and good for them. But Veers was not Motti—thank the Maker—and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t see whatever was in the package and run screaming for the hills.
Eyeing the parcel, Piett turned a bit on the bed, so his back was to Veers. “If you hear a loud vibration, don’t be alarmed.”
“Why would it—oh.”
That knowing tone in Veers’s voice sent a funny tingle through Piett’s belly, but he ignored it. Best to get this over quickly. With a decisive jerk of his wrist he tore through the packaging, revealing—
“A book,” Veers observed, peering over his shoulder. “And a quiet one, too.”
Piett bristled. “You weren’t supposed to look!”
“I can’t let you head into danger alone, sailor.” He nudged Piett with his shoulder, his smile bright and youthful, wiping the years from his face.
Softening, Piett nudged him back. “Always the hero, eh, Max?”
“Something of a habit of mine, I’m afraid.” Reaching down, he plucked the book from Piett’s lap. “Let’s have a peek, shall we?” He flipped it to the cover page and read, “Play-by-Play: Seducing the Sporting Man. Huh. Am I supposed to use this on you?”
“I think it’s for me,” Piett observed. “Look, there’s a little note in the front. ‘To my dearest Firmus. I hope you find this book as edifying as I have.’”
Veers tapped the page. “There’s a post-script, too. ‘P.S. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a few helpful annotations. Conan has assisted. All my love, Tiaan.’” He glanced up. “Helpful annotations? It almost sounds like he’s trying to give you advice on how to seduce me.”
Piett didn’t blink. “It certainly does. Here, let me—thank you,” he said, accepting the book. “But by Tiaan’s standards this is really rather tame.”
A few innocuous romance tips and date ideas could even be fun, come to think of it. And ‘Sporting Man’ was an encouraging bit of the title; perhaps this book contained ideas for couple’s activities in the gym. His pulse quickened. Veers in his exercise shorts was a sight to behold; tanned thighs dusted with soft, blond hair, the heft of his manhood jostling in an inviting fashion as he jogged side by side with Piett on the treadmills....
“What’s ballplay, Firmus?” Veers asked. “It looks like Tiaan circled it, but I don’t see that it’s associated with any particular sport.”
He jerked his head with a start. The book was open on Veers’s lap with all the guilelessness of a children’s nursery rhyme collection, but the table of contents that stared up at them was anything but innocent. Ballplay, foodplay, breathplay, petplay—the plays ran all the way down the page, each one accompanied by a comment in Jerjerrod’s tidy script. And the book itself, Piett noticed with growing alarm, seemed to have notes jutting out of the side, tagging particular points of interest.
Swallowing, his gaze darted to Veers.
But Veers did not appear put-out. In fact he looked distinctly curious, regarding the book much like he regarded the crosswords that came with the Benduday edition of the Denonian Daily: as though it were a puzzle he’d quite like to solve.
“Balls as in bollocks, Max,” Piett said thinly.
Veers blinked, and then he laughed, slapping Piett so hard on the back he jolted forward. “Clever! Well, then, let’s flip it open, eh? I’d like to have a look at what your friend has to say about that.”
“You’re not, er. Disturbed?”
“Not in the least,” he confirmed. “And we’ve got the whole day off, don’t we? I say we flip through the book and see if anything, ah....”
“Piques our interest?” Piett supplied. He was keenly aware of where their knees bumped together, the bare brush of skin providing just enough tantalizing contact to make his hair stand on end. Veers was watching him, and it was not at all subtle.
Flipping past Ballplay (which contained a substantial treatise in Jerjerrod’s hand taped to the first page), Foodplay (one note: ‘Stay away from peppermint oil, it stings’), Breathplay (bearing a comment in Motti’s untidy scrawl advising Piett to keep the gloves on), and Petplay (this chapter hosting both Jerjerrod’s opinions on the strength and stylishness of various models of collars, as well as a drawing, initialed C.A.M., of what looked to be a small penis with legs, an Imperial cap, and an ominous sort of smile), he finally landed on Temperature Play.
In his mind flashed the image of Veers’s chest, broad and sturdy, with just the right amount of middle-aged softness. How would it feel, he wondered, to press ice against the small bronze peaks of his nipples; to watch them stiffen with cold, before heating them with his tongue?
“Something on your mind, sailor?” Veers asked lowly.
“I was just thinking, Max,” Piett said, cuddling close, “that I’d quite like you to read to me.”